Holding Up The Sky - Book III - Polaris
by M. Wheels
Summary: Book III. McQueen is returned to active service and Kylen begins her new career. The Wildcards have been 'cooling their heels.' What has been happening on 'The Sara?' How are they all faring? And is everything going according to plan? And just whose plan
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: Space: Above and Beyond and its original Characters are the property of Hard Eight Productions and Fox Broadcasting and are used without their permission. No Copyright infringement is intended and it is not written for any gain. We all know they belong to them. The Characters of Amy Langston and Dale Steinbeck are the creation of Rayhne and the S:AaB VTV gang are used with permission. Other characters and situations in this work of fiction are my creations. 

Holding Up The Sky M. Wheels

Book III - Polaris

(One)

9 April 2065

Quantico, Virginia,

USA

1630 hours

Kylen entered the indoor firing range, a long cement block building at the far end of the base. She flexed her neck from side to side and rolled her shoulders, attempting to relax muscles still tense from a long session with the cartographers. Up until ten minutes ago she had been supposed to report to the driving course to take her 'final' in the sedan: Kylen had been learning defensive driving and escape techniques in a number of different vehicles.

Not that it made a whole lot of difference in her life. She didn't have a car of her own to drive, and with her daily assignments, she hadn't set foot off the base in almost two weeks. Kylen supposed that there really wasn't all that much to do off base that she couldn't do behind its walls - not in the day to day - but it was the idea that they didn't allow her any real free time that was beginning to frustrate her. What she had only recently learned was that her entire schedule and any changes in it - her entire day - had to be approved through Major Howard. She determined to call him tonight and ask for three hours to herself to get her hair done, take a bubble bath, and watch a three-hankie movie. _"I'll bargain down to ninety minutes," _she thought_. "But I'll start high."_

This was not the first time that Kylen had been called to the firing range. She usually never knew the reason until she arrived.

"Whatcha got for me, Gunnery Sergeant?" she asked.

"Well, Ma'am, that's why we called you. We were hoping you could tell us," was the reply. Gunnery Sergeant Valenzuela was an obvious career Marine - not an ounce of fat and ramrod straight. Kylen speculated that his hair was probably graying at the temples, but there was no way to be sure because he wore it cut high and tight. She had worked with him before. In fact, he had instructed her in small arms, coaching her through the rugged process of 'snapping in'. He had spent days teaching Kylen how to assume the correct posture to fire her weapon. Balance, breathing, and concentration - all with her arms held out in front of her body. It had been grueling and downright painful. She clearly remembered the Gunny's low growl in her ear: "If you think your shoulders burn now, just wait 'til I sit on them." 

Kylen might only be a participant in the High Risk Personnel Program, but damn if Gunny Valenzuela was going to let any person onto his range without them knowing and following proper firearm safety. And damn if any of his students were getting off of his range without making the grade. Gunny would make damn good and sure of that. His charges would snap in until **he **got tired of watching them. 

Kylen had risen to his challenge, qualified as a 'Marksman', and was now certified to carry a concealed sidearm when given courier duties between Quantico, DC, and DamNeck. Well, that was the plan - only she had not yet been asked to deliver anything. 

"Follow me, Ma'am. The technical staff are already on the range," Valenzuela said, turning on his heel and entering the fire line proper. Kylen had invited him weeks ago to call her by her first name. And he did so on the rarest occasions. On equally rare occasions he had referred to the Technical Engineers as 'propeller heads.' This evening he was obviously all business. _"No fun tonight,_" she thought.

"Hiya, Kylen Alexa Celina." It was a familiar voice.

"Hiya, Martin Aalto Guilio," she replied in kind, following the young InVitro's custom of using every name that a person had been given. Martin stepped forward to give her a hug. Even though they were both training and working at Quantico, she seldom saw him, and wasn't really sure what the powers that be had him doing. This was not the first time that she had seen Martin at the range. The propeller heads had a method to their madness, and only called Kylen and Martin in as a team for a specific reason. 

The Tellus and Vesta survivors had been forced to use Chig technology in the mines. The Silicates had not been able to use the equipment, which functioned on principles of bio-electronics. AI's had no "bio" to go with their electronics - and therefore Chig weapons, tools, and instruments were useless in their hands. Only so much scrap. "_When they hired me three months ago, I had no idea that my specialty would become Chig power tools,_" Kylen thought. In fact, the Corps hadn't considered it in the beginning either. But one day when the propeller heads ran into some problems, someone had gotten the bright idea to call in someone who had actually used the stuff. Kylen and Martin had the right clearances. They had been able to identify the purpose of at least two previously unknown instruments, and even though neither one had actually used the tools before, they were able to give a fair demonstration of their function. Almost a year of using Chig technology had given them a finesse and a level of confidence that the engineers had yet to achieve.

__

"You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that being able to use the enemy's equipment could be a real asset on the battlefield. Soldiers have done it on Earth since the beginning of time." Kylen had been able to figure that out all by herself.

When Earth Force had discovered that human beings could 'trigger' the conducting gel, word had gone out to start collecting samples of weaponry - and anything else the Chigs used - for analysis and testing.

One of the biggest problems was the bio-conducting gel. It didn't seem to have a very long shelf-life and seemed to denigrate over time and exposure to oxygen. The weaker the gel, the weaker the power of the weapon or implement. So far the attempts to replicate this gel on Earth had been only partially successful. The results were positive, but yielded only a weak response. The mass spectrometer showed at least one trace element in the gel that was not found in the Earth solar system. The Techies had been trying to track it down for months.

"Try out the drills," the Captain ordered. He belatedly remembered that he was dealing with civilians. "If you please," he amended. "The ones on the right first, please."

Martin and Kylen stepped up to the line and picked up the drills as requested. They checked the distance setting automatically. They had no idea what the markings meant literally, but had learned through use how they corresponded with results.

"You may drill at will," Valenzuela instructed.

Kylen gave the Gunny a 'you've-got-to-be-kidding-me' look, and could swear that - even though not a muscle in his stern expression changed - he winked at her. Kylen and Martin fired up the drills. The one-meter end setpoint was not achieved. The beam was pale and petered out at about eighteen inches. "These ain't gonna cut through Jack," Kylen called up to the Techies, who were now upstairs in the observation room.

"Try the drills on your left," the Captain ordered over the intercom. 

Kylen and Martin scraped the gel left on their hands and arms into a container and closed the lid. It was almost useless, but still not to be wasted. Picking up the next drills, they checked the distance setting and then placed their hands and arms into the sleeves. They felt for the grip inside and slid their middle and ring fingers into place. That was one of the tricks to using the equipment: It was never designed to be triggered with the index finger and didn't work well - if at all - if you tried to use it that way. There evidently wasn't enough myo-electric activity to activate the mechanism. It took time and practice for a person to build up coordination and reaction times using the other fingers. 

Martin stepped back and looked into Kylen's partition. Kylen turned to look at him wide-eyed. The difference was remarkable. They both felt it - even without firing up the drills. She threw back her head and looked up to the observation area. "Where did you get this?" she demanded. "Where did you get this gel?"

"We hoped that you might like it," Valenzuela said, smiling ever so slightly to his charges. "Fire up the drills, please."

Kylen pointed the tool downrange. A brilliant blue beam snapped out of it. Hot, precise, lethal, and exactly one meter in length.

Valenzuela's reaction was self-satisfied: "Oh, my, my, children. Ain't we all just cookin' with gas now?"

Kylen laughed outright.

© 2002 m.wheels


	2. Two

(Two)

11 April 2065

Saratoga 

(Position classified)

0900 hours

As she looked out through the porthole, Captain Shane Vansen took a moment to count the vessels that surrounded the Saratoga. The carrier had been on the move for a week and the task force ships seemed to be somehow breeding and multiplying before her eyes. Commodore Ross had been making even more frequent walkarounds. Maintenance crews were busy everywhere. Flightdecks twelve and fifteen had been cleaned down to the rivets and then Boss Ross had inspected them himself. Loading bays three, seven and eleven had also gotten the once-over. The Saratoga was expecting company. Something was up. One by one, Lieutenants West, Damphousse, and Hawkes joined her at the window.

"Do you see?" Nathan West asked softly, pointing surreptitiously out into the sky at a ship on the edge of visual range.

"Hmmm."

"What?" Cooper Hawkes asked.

"The Gator Navy," Shane whispered out of the side of her mouth. It was an old Marine term. The Gator Navy was the name for those ships that years ago had been specifically designed for - and used exclusively by - the Marine Corps for amphibious landings. The concept had evolved from earth warfare into space, but the name remained unchanged. Onboard those vessels there were elements of a Marine Expeditionary Unit - maybe even a complete MEU if the ships kept multiplying out there. 

"What's going on, Shane?" Vanessa probed.

"I know as much as you do - our orders. That's all I know," she responded. Not for the first time she was forced to admit that she heard McQueen's words coming out of her mouth. 

"Our orders are the same as they've been for damn near five weeks," Nathan groused. "Perimeter duty. Filling in the blanks. Dammit, Shane, how long are they going to keep us out here like this? New pilots - nuggets - could do this job. We fill in open slots for other squadrons, handle dust-offs and supply duty, and pick up scut. Reinforce us or break us up, for god's sake."

"Shane, we were awarded the Presidential Unit Citation - even after the peace talks - and they still treat us like scut-dogs. No, this is all too weird." Damphousse voiced something that had obviously been bothering her, and when Phousse said something was weird, the Cards listened to her.

West tried to shake the chills that Phousse had given them all. "Hell, they don't even send us a new CO," he complained.

He looked over at Shane, who had been the acting CO since her rescue from 2063 Yankee. Well, except for a month when one Lieutenant Colonel McNamara had shown up - and promptly got her tail waxed by a Chig scout with a chip on its shoulder. Phousse had been able to return the favor. Scratch another Chig, and McNamara was on a transport to The Nightingale before you could sing a chorus of Auld Lang Syne. "You know what I mean," he said, hoping to cover any unintended insult.

"Man, I'm glad I don't have to live on one of those," Coop whispered, looking now at two "Gator" ships visible in the distance. Compared to those ships, the Saratoga was a hotel.

"Let's hope it stays that way," Shane mumbled. She then turned her attention to West. "You forget the third and forth options, West. They haven't busted us, and they haven't court-martialed us yet either. Lay low and keep your mouth shut," Shane said. _"Now, how many times have I heard that?" _she thought_._

"Man, oh, man. You sound like the Colonel more every day," Cooper bitched.

The Captain gave the Lieutenant a pretty fair version of Colonel McQueen's famous "Look." It was totally unconscious, but it was there nonetheless.

Vanessa Damphousse laughed softly. Coop was right. Shane had taken on more of McQueen's mannerisms since he had been gone. Instead of fading away with the distance of time and space, the familiar gestures and expressions were appearing with increasing frequency. Plus the fact that Cooper Hawkes, who had had the rather dangerous habit of referring to the Colonel as "McQueen" - even in the man's presence - now only used the term "The Colonel." The Wildcards could always tell just which colonel Cooper was referring to by his tone of voice. "_Cooper has a special tone of voice for Colonel McQueen_," she thought.

Cooper, unfortunately, misinterpreted Vanessa's light laugh. He thought it was directed solely at him, and he had no idea what she would find so funny. Such things still drove him crazy.

"Oh, come off it, Phousse. And you too, Shane. It's been months, and besides, Broden is dead anyhow," Coop said irritably. Admiral Broden had wanted to bring the 58th up on charges following the screw-up on Anvil. He had really wanted their hides. Cooper had mentioned the unmentionable - a subject they had studiously avoiding discussing for almost six months.

"Jeez, Cooper. Shut up," Vanessa snapped.

"What? What did I say?" he complained, throwing his hands in the air. "Like it's a secret or something? It's the truth, anyhow."

Vansen looked meaningfully at West and cocked her head towards Hawkes. The message was clear: _" Handle this, Nathan."_

"Come on, Cooper. Let me 'splain something to you." With that Nathan unceremoniously steered Cooper away from the group, whispering intensely into the young InVitro's ear.

© 2002 m. wheels


	3. Three

(Three)

12 April 2065

Henderson Field

Demios

0530 hours

The sun was fully over the horizon when McQueen crested the hill to the east of Henderson Field. Morning or evening - whenever he worked it into his schedule - the Marine Corps standard 3.5-mile run was once again easy for him. He had been stretching the distance, and was now up to 5 miles. Standard gravity and decent air were not things to be wasted.

After zigzagging around space for three weeks, sending hokey communications and laying down trails that even an AI would find hard to track, the 'Hue City' had met up with her three sister ships. McQueen's MEU, the Twenty-third, had been in synchronous orbit over Demios - over the airfield, in fact - for nine days. McQueen had spent eight of those days on planet. He had the officers of his command drilling elements of the MAGFT in rapid deployment and vertical envelopment. It was called "kicking in the door." The Colonel had sweetened the pot: Units that performed well were given forty-eight hours liberty - such as it was - on the planet.

The insertion trajectory brought most of ISSCVs within visual range of the Eisenhower salvage operation. The Marines hit their LZs fired-up and ready for payback. All units had performed well - had earned their meager liberty - and there had been very little bitching about going through the motions one more time.

Demios had changed a lot since McQueen had last been there. It was a completely operational base again, and rapidly becoming larger than it had been before the Chigs had captured it almost eighteen months earlier. There was construction on planet, and there were salvage operations out in orbit. A lot was going on. Graves Registration had set up four cemeteries, and two more were mapped out. During his trips around the planet, McQueen had noted that these were strategically located: If human dead spooked the Chigs, well, some of the tactical "sweet spots" on the planet would give them the creeps for decades to come. 

One thing that he had noted with interest and curiosity: While cleaned up and serving customers again, the X-1 Diner was remarkably unchanged. McQueen wondered how - in the face of two major planetary bombardments and the absolutely vicious combat that had twice surrounded the airfield - the building had remained standing. Even more extraordinary, the sign on top of the building had survived intact. They hadn't even had to repaint it. It was the oddest thing.

The Colonel slowed his pace to begin to cool down. The Hue was to leave orbit at 1900 hours. There would be time for one last 'all-the-water-that-you-want' shower. Then Captain Chan would have coffee waiting, and work would begin. The last of his Marines would have to be shuttled back to the ship. The final details of the embarkation would need the once-over. There would be last minute communications to review, and he had his own gear to get together. There might just be time to run over to the X-1. Time to grab one more burger and some french fries with gravy. McQueen positively relished walking into that place and ordering all the food he wanted. It was hot, and it was served on heavy white plates that clanged when the waitress slapped them down on the counter. Almost nine months earlier in this diner, he had found the 5-8 bent but unbeaten. They had been close to starvation and ready to face death. It gave him a feeling of pride in their incredible accomplishment to sit at the counter and eat all he wanted. It was always the same. The feelings never left him.

McQueen finished his exercise, the sun warm on his back and casting his shadow out long in from of him as he ran. 

**************

12 April 2065

ISSAPC 3297

En route from Demios to the Hue

1600 hours

Passengers on the run between the airfield and the orbiting vessels exhibited one of two standard reactions: Figuratively, they kept their eyes open or closed. Marshall Chan was with the 'eyes open' crowd and joined several members of the headquarters' staff at the starboard portholes. The Eisenhower. There were other ships in the salvage area as well, but the "Ike" overpowered everything else in sheer bulk and emotional impact. She looked like hell. Thrusters now kept her massive hulk in stable orbit, and the salvage crews were disassembling what the Chigs hadn't blown apart. The grand old gal was being picked apart, and her pieces were being hauled off. 

Chan was aware that McQueen was not at the portholes - that he was not watching the ants eat away at the carcass. It was part of Marshall's job after all: to know where the Colonel was at all times. But the fact that McQueen was not glued to the windows didn't mean that Chan would classify the Colonel as being in the 'eyes closed' camp (those who did everything they could not to have to look at the wreckage). McQueen had taken a look at the scene on the way down to the planet eight days ago, and that had been enough. No, McQueen had just seen everything that he had needed to see the first time around, and was now seated comfortably (as comfortably as one could get) in a seat by the airlock, reading something in his personal handheld. The man read a lot - a whole lot (and reading on a 'personal' was a pain in the rear) - but Marshall had never had the nerve to ask him what it was that he read. Colonel McQueen did not invite that sort of familiarity.

Captain Marshall Chan had been assigned to McQueen's command in January and had worked along side the man almost 24/7, and what he did not know about the man - let alone understand - could fill Chan's own personal handheld. Not that the Colonel was difficult - far from it. Colonel McQueen laid out his expectations in a clear manner, concise and to the point. He was prepared. McQueen did not bluster, BS, or shift blame. He wasn't given to raising his voice, and only bitched when bitching was deserved. McQueen didn't expect Marshall to read his mind and had, once or twice, even gone so far as to say "Thank you" or "Well done" when Chan had anticipated him. Chan felt that he should be more than satisfied with this assignment - he had worked for far worse - but he still had a vague feeling of being somehow out of step. 

When he had gotten the assignment, Chan had discreetly asked around, trying to find out some more information. He had tried to better learn how to deal with the man - just to find a way of making contact. No one had been very helpful. Everyone knew who McQueen was, and his reputation for getting things done, but nobody seemed to really know anything about him - nothing solid or meaningful. Colonel McQueen remained a closed book. In three months, Marshall couldn't remember ever having seen the man smile, but the Colonel could be quick with a one-liner, and Chan had heard him laughing out loud in the desert late at night. The Captain had never seen the Colonel send any mail, but he had received several items - even boxes - from some place in Massachusetts. Chan had observed that McQueen would eat whatever was served without complaint, but that, when given a choice, he showed a preference for vegetarian dishes and packed carbos. But on Demios the man had eaten at least one meal a day at the greasy spoon. And had paid out of his own pocket to eat red meat, fried food, and heavy desserts loaded with sugar and fat. Chan had been mystified.

Captain Chan returned to his seat next to Colonel McQueen, who nodded his acknowledgment. The Colonel had looked up from his reading, so Marshall decided to risk it. After all, they worked well together - they both knew it.

"What are you reading, Sir? Is it study or pleasure?"

McQueen considered for a moment before answering: "Pleasure." He did appreciate that Chan was part of his staff. He could have done worse. The Captain was good. _"Maybe a touch too conservative - but then the man is infantry and not an aviator."_

After the second day, he had never had to tell Marshall Chan anything twice. The younger man ran excellent interference, was a fine liaison, and the paperwork was done on time. In short, Captain Chan played well with others and never ran with the scissors. 

__

"Ross would make the effort," McQueen thought. "General Wierek and General Green would." McQueen hadn't thought about it before, but now realized that he had kept Chan at a distance. He did not choose to share his selection of reading material, finding it difficult to open up to that extent, but he decided that it just wouldn't be fair or helpful to continue to ignore the Captain's overtures.

"Are they making any progress?" McQueen asked quietly, jerking his head toward the remains of the Eisenhower.

"A little They must be Its been over a week Its just so damn big," Chan responded. He had never served on a carrier, and the size amazed him. The wreck of the Eisenhower was a sobering sight. Demios had been a very near thing, and the ruin only served to remind anyone who saw it how close Earth forces had come to complete annihilation. Chan shook his head unconsciously. "I've spent all of my time in the infantry, Sir - not all that much time in space - and I've never seen anything like it before," he admitted quietly. "It certainly gets your attention."

"Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won," McQueen said.

"They'll use all of it they can." Marshall stated the obvious. For decades all Earth spacecraft had been designed utilizing the modular concept. Not only did Hammerheads have interchangeable parts, but also all ships were interchangeable with any ship in their class. Parts, electronics, tools, and instruments - whole sections of the Ike would find their way into the remainder of the Earth Force carrier fleet. The resources were just too valuable.

"No matter how reality based you'd think it would give some people the willies. Having parts of that ship bolted into your own," Chan admitted. He was torn about this. As an adult, and a military man, part of him considered the idea of haunted ships childish. Frivolous. But he also had to admit that if, in the future, he was traveling in a module that had been part of that broken dead beast; he would rather not know it. 

"You believe in ghosts, Captain?" McQueen asked wryly.

"Two and a half years ago I didn't believe there was life on other planets. I'm not so quick to discount things that I haven't seen," Chan responded honestly.

McQueen gave a rather curt nod of assent. _"I don't suppose any of us are," _McQueen speculated to himself.

__

"He is right," thought McQueen. _"If people find out that they carry parts of the Ike, there will be stories and 'sightings.' People are going to claim to see and hear members of the Eisenhower crew - to hear the sounds of the battle. Forgetting totally that their ship used to always make strange noises - forgetting that they are tired, wired, and have a gallon of adrenaline shooting through their systems."_

"On the other hand," Chan continued. "Maybe the purpose of the lingering spirits If one believes in such things Maybe the spirits will be protective. They might be helpful and do everything they can to keep the crew safe, and to warn them to prevent this from happening again." As he looked into McQueen's impassive face, the Captain felt suddenly exposed and more than a little foolish.

McQueen did not immediately respond. The Eisenhower represented a mistake - a bush-league mistake. McQueen, unfortunately, was not baffled as to how such a mistake could have been made. People became overconfident, forgetting the details and neglecting the basics. The wreck and her pieces spread out throughout the fleet would give everyone a hard object lesson. But he did recognize that if people were going to entertain such fantasies as haunted flightdecks then he preferred Chan's take on things. It certainly wasn't the strangest thing he had heard in his career. 

"If ghosts want to hang around, then at least let them be useful," he said ironically. The Colonel was letting the Captain off of the hook. McQueen almost smiled.

"Aye, aye, Sir," Chan said, relaxing a bit. He paused briefly before continuing in a more self-contained vein. " The ideas - the images - have power. Memories have power. Maybe it is just the way we feel about these things - how we deal with things from our past."

"Hmmm," was all McQueen said. The Colonel felt like he had memories enough for several lifetimes.

__

"Now we have it. Time. The past, present, and future," McQueen thought. _"This is a major difference between InVitros and Naturals."_ He had noted this difference before, and was just beginning to grasp the meaning and significance: The two races dealt differently with time. 

Naturals chewed on their past, their childhoods, old slights and remembered triumphs. Like dogs with their bones, Natural-borns not only hid their past away, they guarded it and dug it up just to look at it. They worried over it. They had to make sure it was still there - to make sure that the past hadn't disappeared in the night. They would rebury it only to look for it again. They loved their past even when they hated it.

InVitros, on the other hand, never forgot where their pasts were kept, because the past was never buried, and generally was not something treasured or even considered with any fondness. There never really was a past, because most InVitros seemed to carry everything with them, refusing to let it go. It was all they had, so it was never released: It was always there. The staggering weight of the past bogged everything down. InVitros didn't worry about the past because they never allowed it to **become** the past. Consequently it was difficult to move forward. InVitros stood in the perpetual heat of a silent sun - 360 degrees of light in an emotional desert. They never stepped away from their pasts because their own shadows surrounded them on all sides.

McQueen sensed that the issue of the past - and to some extent memories - would always be different for InVitros. All genetic humans had to learn a handful of universal lessons. InVitros learned a lot of the same lessons, but there were differences that might never be surmounted due to the physical age at which things were learned and the responsibilities that were carried at the time - the expectation people had of life. Most Naturals still learned at a parent's knee: Life came is small doses, a bit at a time. His life - and the lives - of the majority of InVitros had been different. InVitros did not learn life lessons from fairytales inside a protected place. The cattleprod was not a childhood memory for the majority of Natural-borns and it was certainly not a universal race memory. 

And Natural-borns worried about the future incessantly. They talked about it enough, but years ago in the mines, people hadn't even been able to dream about a future. McQueen had been almost seven years out of the tank before he had heard InVitros talking about anything farther out than twenty-four hours. Goals and plans were something dreamed of, perhaps, but the tools to formulate them weren't accessible - InVitros had never been taught. McQueen understood that had changed for the last generation of InVitros: They hadn't been decanted under the shadow of death - hadn't been born over their open graves. He had seen that even for someone Hawkes' age it was different. Cooper seemed to be beginning to believe in a future.

It seemed to McQueen that the biggest difference between the races was that whatever Natural-borns were doing, part of their minds seemed to be elsewhere - except during the heat of combat. They did not seem to be looking for something else exactly, but rather some other "time." It appeared that Natural-borns were always moving - or wanting to move. They were looking for some time behind them or out in front of them somewhere. He had seen them do it even during sex. What was here - what was now - was never enough. They always seemed to want _"_**somewhen**_" _else. They counted on the future. They bet against it. Natural-borns seemed to McQueen to spend a whole lot of energy concentrating on phantoms times and events that were other than **now.** Times that, in a sense, didn't really exist. It was all ghosts. InVitros believed in what they held in their hands. 

Most older InVitros never integrated the past, and the concept of a real future was usually shaky - if not beyond comprehension. They almost always lived in the moment. What should be behind was still inside of them, and what was out front did not and would never exist. Life itself was always a trial: InVitros somehow stood still. Most still did not own their future anymore than they owned their past. It all belonged to someone else.

McQueen realized that both views of life might be - and probably were - equal lies and therefore equally dangerous. Maybe there was no one simple truth in being human. It was all about ownership and attachments, both literal and metaphysical.

There was a something 'zenlike' to be said for living in the now. Aspects of it appealed to McQueen. But during his assignments in Japan, McQueen had noted that even Buddhist monks planted gardens and harvested for the future - at the same time they were quoting passages from texts written thousands of years earlier. They dealt with the past, present, and the future, but owned none of them - and all of them - at the same time. Balance wasn't simple.

There had been a time in his life when McQueen hadn't thought about such things. He suddenly missed that time. 

He turned back to his reading. Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. "The first rule is to keep an untroubled spirit." McQueen gave a snort of self-derision. An untroubled spirit was something he had obviously yet to accomplish. He did, however, feel secure in his belief that he did very well in respect to Aurelius' second rule: "To look things in the face and know them for what they are."

McQueen had looked at the Eisenhower once - that was enough.

© 2002 m. wheels


	4. Four

(Four)

14 April 2065

The Pentagon

Washington, DC

USA

1645 hours

McQueen's prediction had finally come true - partially. Kylen had been assigned to a basement office of the Pentagon. Actually she was in a sub-basement, and the office was tiny. A cubicle with a lock. She was not, however, reading through other people's mail. 

Kylen had spent three days reviewing the Tellus and Vesta survivors' debriefings. Being alone in an underground cubicle and reliving her past from different points of view had been an exercise in self- control. The nightmares had resurfaced with a vengeance. The military had rented out three motels in Pentagon City to accommodate the influx of personnel. On the second night someone had called the manager to check on her. Kylen had been crying out so loudly in her sleep that she had awakened the neighbors. The manager had been very kind and very understanding: It wasn't the first time he had seen this happen in the last few months. He assured Kylen that it was a problem he dealt with on a weekly basis -and at least Kylen hadn't been violent. He offered her a selection of atmospheric tapes: birds singing, waterfalls, rainstorms and the like. "A lot of people tell me that these sometimes help," he had said. Kylen had selected a tape of the ocean, and then she had taken a shower.

Earlier this afternoon a messenger from Major Howard had given her a code that granted her access to additional information. A menu had appeared on her screen - the after-action reports and Intelligence debriefings from the Fifty-eighth's capture and escape from Kazbek. Kylen had almost lost her lunch.

The documents had loaded into her terminal slowly - one by one. As she began to read, Kylen realized why there was a delay. Everything was censored to some extent. Words, phrases, and the occasional paragraph were blanked out. Someone, maybe even someone in the tiny room next to her own, was censoring the Fifty-eighth's reports and debriefings as they came across the wire: There was something that she wasn't supposed to see. At the end of all the reports - even McQueen's and Hawkes', though they had never been captured - a significant portion of the narrative was blanked out. The stories were all told from different viewpoints, but there was a big blank in every story at the same spot - the firefight with the AIs, with Nathan knocking Paul Wang to the ground. And all of them picked up the narrative again at the same place - Paul calling out to McQueen that an ISSAPC was landing. 

Nathan's report was the last to come across her screen and Kylen was deeply disappointed to see that while she could read his report, the transcript of his debriefing was not available to her. She clicked the icon three times only to receive a big ACCESS DENIED screen repeatedly.

Kylen noted that Nathan's report that it had been heavily censored even before she downloaded it. It was less than half the size of everyone else's. She read it a half-dozen times. She read it trying to fill in the blanks, and she read it in order to hear Nathan's voice in his written words. Kylen's subbasement room was a lonely place. 

After clearing her terminal, Kylen locked away her notes. She was forbidden to take anything into her office other than something to drink, which she had to get from one of the guards. She was also forbidden to take anything out of it. She passed through the scanner that ensured that she hadn't pocketed anything, and then she signed out of the area, mouthing inane pleasantries to the guard on duty and wondering just how much he could see on that scanner. Kylen walked the two flights of stairs up to ground level, left the building, and headed out to walk by the river. Water. Water always helped her to think. She was having trouble thinking: Images tumbled over in her mind, and nothing would come into focus. Maybe it was a mistake for her to take this job. She knew that she had been helpful down at Quantico - helpful with the Chig equipment, and maybe even helpful with the information she had been able to give people about the AIs that had held the POWs captive. But she could sense that the Marines had been hopeful that she would have more insight into the Chigs than she did. But now she was beginning to really get into the meat of what she had thought she had been hired to do - analyze information - and it was all too real, too close to home. It was difficult - if not impossible - for her to maintain any sort of critical distance. 

Kylen felt as if she was continually being sucked into a vortex and couldn't control the ride. There was no anchor here, no emotional rock she felt she could hang on to. And at the same time she felt chained to the rocks like Andromeda, sacrificed to a sea monster for someone else's sins. Only it was her own sin of pride that had gotten her here. "Oh, yes, I can do it," she had told her father and Dale and Amy. "Oh, yes," she had reassured Nathan. "Oh, yes," she had told McQueen, looking boldly into his eyes, ready to argue her point. And now she was was chained to these rocks, waiting for the monster of her own pride and failure to rise up and devour her.

Keenly aware of just how alone that she felt, Kylen realized that always before in her life she had had people around - backing her up. Her parents, or her brothers, and her sisters had always been there is some fashion. She had been going out to colonize space, but Nathan had been there with her every step of the way. When she had been a prisoner, there had been other people there to share the experience - people who would give her a hand when she needed it, and to whom she would return the favor. And since her rescue, she had been able to hide under McQueen's wings if she felt buffeted. He had been a lodge pole - a totem. She had named him her North Star. She had even given it to him. A star - something she could use to guide her life by. For the first time in her life, Kylen had struck out totally on her own. No one had been happy with her choice to work for the Marine Corps: Everyone had had doubts, and no one had offered unconditional support. She had done this all on her own. "Oh, yes," she had told everyone. "I can do this." Now it all came down to what she had inside.

There was no Perseus coming. No one had Medusa's head to turn the monster to stone. There were serpents all right, but they weren't coiling around anybody's head, they were crawling under the door. She would fail. Fail publicly - spectacularly. And everyone would know what a charlatan she was. Those people who loved her would hold their arms open. They would forgive her, comfort her, and never never say: "We were afraid this would happen." They would never say it, but they would think it - and it was almost more than Kylen could stand. 

Now she had a choice to make: She could fail because she caved in or she could fail because she really couldn't do the job, which was only a slightly less bitter option. But if she dug in she might succeed. There was a chance. She might be able to master her fears and nightmares. 

The famous Washington cherry blossoms were past their peak. The delicate white petals had fallen from the trees. They had been wind blown into small piles - everywhere - under the scrubs and in the irregularities of the sidewalk. Most had turned brown - returning to the Earth - but every so often Kylen could catch a fragile feather of their scent. Could sense more than smell the pale perfume. The afternoon sun was warm on her face, and it cast a shadow out behind her. Kylen decided. _"I might as well go for it." _She broke into a run.

Kylen had trained at Quantico to make the 3.5-mile run in the required time. She hated it - every step of it. But it might help her focus. 

***************************

1800 hours

After her run and a solitary dinner in one of the cafeterias, Kylen returned to the subbasement ready (one more time) to look for the patterns - the details.

She took the change out of her pockets and put it into her locker. She stood for her retinal scan, the guard signed her in, and then he read the scanner as she walked through. 

"I always feel like I should blush when I walk through this thing," she said.

"You should," the guard joked back.

"Thanks a lot. That makes me feel a whole lot better."

"Nah, don't worry about it, Ma'am. After a day of doing this job it gets real clinical - like bein' a doctor or a nurse or somethin'. The romance is gone."

"Nothing you haven't seen before, huh?" Kylen joked.

"I think I've seen it all, Ma'am. And it isn't all that much, to tell you the truth."

"So underneath everything we're all pretty much the same?"

"More than you know." He smiled at her. A real person-to-person smile.

"More than you know," she repeated softly to herself. Kylen took a few steps and then turned back to the Corporal. "Is it possible? Is it allowed? Can I have some music in my office? It ."

" helps me concentrate." The guard said the last three words with her. Kylen had to smile. Evidently it was a common request.

"See the guard at the end of your hallway, Ma'am. He'll give you a player if they aren't all signed out - the rooms are soundproofed and he has quite a few disks - mostly classical stuff. If you want something different, we have to check it out first and you ...."

"Have to leave it here with you." Kylen finished the sentence for him.

"It's always a pleasure to work with quick learners, Ma'am."

"Thanks. But we shall see. We shall see. Later, Corporal."

"Later, Ma'am."

Kylen selected some Chopin, got two soft drinks, and went to work.

Four hours later Kylen turned her music back in to the guard at the end of her hallway. She felt that she was only a little bit ahead of where she had been earlier in the day - and she was exhausted. Kylen wondered how many cubicles there were like hers in the Pentagon - over in Langley - at military bases all over the world. It was another thought that didn't bear too much contemplation. 

The Corporal was still on duty when Kylen went to check out. He looked her over with a practiced eye.

"Good. Go home and get some sleep," he said with a touch of genuine concern.

"You too," she answered.

"The Pentagon City shuttle will leave from the South Entrance in fifteen minutes. Now you be on it. Remember, Ms. Celina, rats die after six hours in the dark."

She had no idea if what he said was true, but at that moment it was one of the most amusing things she had ever heard: A comment on life in the subbasements of the Pentagon. The two of them shared a pretty good laugh.

**************************

15 April 2065

Subbasement A230f37

The Pentagon

Washington DC

USA

0645 hours

Quantico had been tough and the people there were often closed-mouth, but at least there had been people. Kylen hadn't been in DC long enough to make any sort of contacts - let alone friends.

Kylen had been afraid to fall asleep. There was no family, no late night drinks in the kitchen with McQueen, no 3:00 AM phone calls, no Nathan.

She found herself missing the other survivors. She had only recently said that she never wanted to see any of them ever again, but she would gladly sit up all night talking with any one of them.

Now she was back at her little desk. There were some documents that she wanted to go over again. Someone - or something - had led Nathan on a merry chase around the planet in an attempt to gain information. Someone or something that seemed to her to have great significance - but something that she wasn't supposed to know about. Kylen had a meeting with Major Howard at 0800 and wanted to frame her comments with great care.

She closed her eyes and imagined Nathan and her Colonel McQueen on board a ship shooting through the stars. "Emerson," she said softly. "This time, like all times, can be a very good one, if we but know what to do with it."

Looking up at the calendar, Kylen was forced to chuckle. April 15, and she didn't have to worry about filing her income tax. The hostages had received tax amnesty from the IRS for the 2063 and 2064 tax years. It was one of the few bright spots in the last four days, and Kylen had learned in the mines to enjoy bright spots whenever they appeared.

© 2002 m.wheels


	5. Five

(Five)

15 April 2065

U.S.S. Saratoga SCVN-2812 

2018 hours

Military terms are strange animals. Every so often a new term will appear if it is really required. And if it is really required, generally two terms will be found: one conjured up by the Techies and the Brass, and then a generally more colorful and more accurate term that the Grunts come up with - the term that usually sticks. But throughout the chain of command it is felt that if old terminology fits the bill - why rock the boat? In truth, rarely is military terminology retired. Tradition.

Most Earth Force ships had at least one 'gig,' a small, essentially unarmed, craft used to move handfuls of personnel from one ship to another. Craft of similar function and the same name had been used in the naval service for centuries. 

The Hue gig docked in the Saratoga's starboard hanger bay O-1, located at the stern of the carrier, directly under the main engines. The O bays were used to dock a variety of craft: The gig was the smallest. The docking was unscheduled, but IFF had confirmed and the codes had been cleared. No one notified Commodore Ross. It was no big deal: He had junior officers to handle such things, and he had a big day planned for tomorrow. A Lieutenant J.G. - with a sidearm - and three fully armed USMC security personnel met the visitors, who were also under arms; McQueen, Chan, and a Staff Sergeant Marsh to handle their communications. Captain Chan, who had a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, had rightfully pointed out to Colonel McQueen that the Colonel should not make the trip unaccompanied. 

The Lieutenant knew McQueen by sight, and his salute was extra smart.

McQueen spoke before the Lieutenant could offer any pleasantries. "Please convey my compliments to Commodore Ross and ask if I might have a few minutes of his time. We will be onboard for at least 48 hours, if you could see to some quarters. By the way, Lieutenant, for the moment - I am not here. Is this understood?"

"Aye, aye, Sir."

With that, McQueen led his small team to the elevators. One of the security detail joined them in the lift.

"With respect, Colonel. Security codes have been changed." The Marine punched in the code that would allow the lift to reach the command center. The elevator climbed the eighteen levels to Deck 6. Chan noted that no one doubted that the Commodore would see Colonel McQueen immediately. 

The Marine security guard escorted the small detail to the hatch of Boss Ross' office, knocked once, and then entered. He had obviously received instructions through his headset. Commodore Ross was standing in front of his desk. McQueen entered the room, stood the required distance from his friend and senior officer, and, being under arms, snapped a textbook salute, which the rear admiral (bottom half) returned with equal ceremony. There was a stillness - an expectancy - in the room that Chan felt did not include him, the staff sergeant, or the security guard. They were not needed - or wanted.

"I take it you have business with me, Colonel. Take off that sidearm and let's get down to it."

A thought formed in his mind before McQueen could control it. _"More_ _ghosts."_ To bury the dangerous thought, McQueen spoke.

"Commodore Ross, may I present my adjutant, Captain Chan, and Staff Sergeant Marsh, our communications NCO." McQueen introduced his charges, gracefully implying that what he had to say was for Ross' ears only.

"Gentlemen," Ross acknowledged.

"Sir, if we may secure these documents?" McQueen asked. In short order Chan's locked briefcase was stowed in the Commodore's safe, and Colonel McQueen's staff had been dismissed.

When the hatch closed, the two friends took a moment to size each other up. Neither one knew just how much could be safely said to each other. Security had been extraordinarily tight: Even McQueen, who had been at Wierek's side for most of two months, didn't know all there was to know.

"Fairport Harbor," said McQueen. It was the password for the conference scheduled for the next day. He honestly did not know if Ross was going to actually sit in on the meetings.

"Blakeslee," Ross replied. It was the correct response. The men had received the password and response only an hour earlier. They both visibly relaxed.

"Do you really have business with me tonight, or did you just come across a day early to shoot the breeze?" Ross asked, half joking, but hoping for the latter.

"There's an hour or so worth of real business I was hoping we could cover before tomorrow afternoon, Commodore."

"A hour you say? Or so? We could have covered that in the morning." The Commodore decided that he didn't want to play the war-secrets game any longer than he had to. He had missed Ty, and was grateful for the chance to spend some relaxed time with the man. McQueen had obviously come across from his ship shortly after receiving the passwords. There must have been a reason. Ross figured it out and smiled. _"McQueen didn't come for business - he just wanted to visit. And for once, we have a few hours time."_ Ty had made an open gesture of friendship. Ross was touched and modified his tone. "So, in fact, you did come over to drink my liquor and tell me lies." 

"With respect, Sir, I came over to drink your liquor and listen to you tell me lies."

__

"Bingo," thought Ross, who laughed softly, with genuine appreciation of McQueen's irony.

They dropped all pretenses and shook hands. Ross pulled McQueen into an awkward embrace - one hand slapping each other on the back and the other hand clasped and held firmly between the bodies - the standard men's greeting used to convey and hide emotions simultaneously. 

McQueen took a step back. Ross spoke. "Ohhh wee, and he shows up with his own staff yet. Local boy makes good. I send you off of my ship looking like hell - like death warmed over. I hear from you twice in the last six months - nothing since January - and then you show up with birds on your shoulders. You walk into my house wearing a weapon and with papers that I have to lock in my safe. And, to top it off, no rum for your old pal that I can see Congratulations, Ty Sit. Let me pour you a drink."

McQueen shook his head and smiled openly. He felt comfortable.

Glen Ross handed his friend the drink. Ty smiling in such a fashion was a very rare thing. Ross could count the occasions on one hand. He considered it a compliment.

"I wasn't sure that I would be here, Sir." McQueen gave Ross a meaningful look as he took his drink. "I doubt that I know much more than you. This operation is so compartmentalized, I had no idea to which carrier group I would be attached until yesterday."

"Do you know why they would call us off of the blockade, if not to send us to Earth or Groombridge for a refit? What do they need us for? Where are the new carriers?"

McQueen knew, of course, that the Chig home solar system was under blockade. He had been there to see Ixion fall and a major Chig shipyard taken. He had seen the victory on Demios. But he had been out of the chain of command for almost three months, and then had been sequestered at Twentynine Palms and on the Hue_. "New carriers?"_ he thought. There were obviously a number of things that Ross knew that he did not. But it was also clear to McQueen that, at least for tonight, he knew more about 'Brass Ring' than Ross did.

McQueen did not answer Ross' question, but rather asked one of his own. "Who is the CO of the Fifty-eighth? I'm - we - are going to need them. They are going to be given Temporary Duty Assignments. I'll need to speak to their CO soon."

Ross let the fact that McQueen had not answered the question roll right over him. For the next few days a lot of questions would go unanswered. It was nothing personal. There was no point in dwelling on it. But he could give his friend a subtle jibe. "So do you know who is getting the Wildcards?"

McQueen just smiled. He knew. "Rank hath its privileges," he said softly. 

Ross laughed. It was good to have Ty back - even for a short time. "Well, I hope 'someone' is going to put them to use. A month ago I got orders to hold them in reserve. They are going nuts. I can tell you that much."

"Their CO?" Ty repeated.

"Had a new one for about a month she got shipped out on the Nightingale. Vansen is still acting CO. You know, Ty, they're going to go wild when they find out you're here."

"Let's see if we can avoid that," he muttered as he fingered one if the photographs on Ross' desk. 

"They are at the very least going to want to wet down your promotion, Colonel. I know how you hate a fuss, but don't deny them that." Ross turned to his desktop and punched in a few commands. Vansen, West, Hawkes, and Damphousse were flying perimeter around the carrier group - filling holes in the Thirty-fifth Squadron. 

"We'll take care of that as soon as they get off duty, and we can quarter your Captain Chan with them. He can help keep the lid on. We've got two hours. Time to get you settled, grab a sauna, get in some conversation and maybe a catnap. Finish that drink, Colonel." 

© 2002 m. wheels


	6. Six

(Six)

15 April 2065

Saratoga

2220 hours

It had been four hours of absolute quiet. After three hours it had been difficult to stay focused - to keep one's mind on the job. It took training, discipline, and a sense of purpose to stay sharp. The lack of maneuvering made a pilot feel like lead from the waist down, and the sameness of the views - the lack of change - made a pilot feel like oatmeal from the neck up. After four hours and ten minutes the remnants of the Fifty-eighth peeled off from the other patrol squadrons and headed for their own homebase - the 'Sara's' hanger bays H1 and H2.

The Wildcards clambered out of their cockpits. Whenever they returned, one or two of them would, by force of habit, look for those who were missing. Not every person, every time, but each time they returned from a mission someone always would look toward Wang's place, and someone would scan the bay or the 'O' room for McQueen. It was the only time that they still looked for the two. They were no longer worried or surprised that their friend and their CO weren't there. They no longer expected to see them. But one of them always checked. They unconsciously watched each other just to make sure that someone had looked. And they all knew that someday they would stop checking the empty spaces - that someday it wouldn't matter in the same way. The Wildcards could and would give up a lot, but not this - not quite yet. 

A messenger handed Captain Vansen a note. From her reaction, the rest of her team knew the news was not good.

"What?" Hawkes demanded.

"Oh, man," she muttered.

"Shane?" Phousse asked.

"Orders From the Commodore. We are to be in our quarters and hold ourselves ready All of us Ten mikes."

"Ten mikes?" Nathan asked.

"Now what?" Phousse asked no one in particular.

"Jeez, Don't even leave us enough time to take a whiz," Hawkes groused as he made for the nearest head double-time.

*************

Saratoga - Deck 14

Marine Corps Quarters

Fifty-eighth Squadron

2230 hours 

Shane, Nathan, and Vanessa were seated at the table, and Hawkes was asleep on his rack. The rest of the team had long since ceased to be amazed at where - and just how rapidly - he could fall asleep. They were silent now not out of respect for Hawkes' dreams, but alone in their thoughts. _"What now?"_

There was a sharp cursory knock on the hatch, and Boss Ross strode into the room. The Marines, even Cooper, snapped to without having to hear a command to attention. Three seconds later Colonel T.C. McQueen stepped through the hatch.

Vanessa saw no colored lights, but she could hear her own heartbeat ringing in her ears. Almost incongruously she wondered: _"Can they hear it too? Do they hear their own?"_ She could hear Cooper's breathing behind her. It was rapid and shallow. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

Hawkes was absolutely riveted to the spot. _"I don't think I can move. I don't think I can catch my breath," _he thought.

Ross spoke: "What I am about to say is 'Classified.' Now, I know that you are able to add two and two, and that you have been expecting something like this. In the next forty-eight hours we will all be receiving new orders. Now, Colonel McQueen is TDA to the Saratoga for an unknown period of time beginning tomorrow at 1200 hours. I see that you have twelve hours of downtime beginning at 2400. I will see you all in the Tun Tavern at 2330 when the Colonel will stand us all a round to wet down his promotion."

Ross had intentionally stage-managed the moment. The reunion of the 5-8 and McQueen would be heavy with emotion. He wasn't sure that in an informal setting, the 5-8 would not give in to unbridled joy. Ty would find it embarrassing and would be uncomfortable. And when Ty became uncomfortable, he withdrew even farther into himself, becoming even more distant - often cold. This reaction would not be what the 5-8 was looking for, and even though they knew the man well, it could leave them demoralized and dissatisfied. Ross had decided that it was best to control this first meeting. _"Let them work out the details later between themselves."_

West had an uncanny déjà vu. There was Commodore Ross pacing back and forth in front of the Fifty-eighth. He was giving his outline and issuing his orders, and Lt. Colonel McQueen was standing behind him - At Ease - taking in all the information while simultaneously watching the squadron to make sure that they got it all. It was more than a bit disorienting, but then Nathan was able to focus on the little metallic birds - the emblem of a full colonel - that were pinned to McQueen's shoulders. The feeling that West had of being displaced in time and space quickly morphed into a feeling of 'this-is-the-way-things-should-be.' He suddenly felt calm and ready.

McQueen stepped forward as if on cue. "It is good to see you all," he said simply. "As you were."

The Wildcards did not return to their seats, but without a command and as a single unit they assumed 'At Ease.' McQueen recognized the posture and the moment for what it was - a silent gesture of respect. Everyone in the room took a second to live in that moment - to freeze it in time. McQueen had given them a gift: He had offered them the opportunity to relax and display some of their emotions. They knew that he had made this gesture even though it might make him feel uncomfortable. They had just been told that they would be able to laugh and carry on together as a group within the hour at the Tun Tavern. So they gave him something in return - they maintained their military bearing not only out of respect but also as a gift. Ross' years of experience had paid off. He had set up the scene perfectly, and the men and women under his command had performed to perfection. 

The Cards felt a shot of pride run through the room. They were proud of themselves, and their superior officers felt that they had every right to be.

McQueen gracefully ended the tableau by stepping toward Captain Vansen with his arm outstretched. They shook hands.

"Captain Vansen, Shane I'm glad you made it back. I've only heard good things about you and what you have been doing." He then placed his left hand on her upper arm, adding strength and intimacy to his remark. Shane felt something snap inside her. She was no longer afraid. She realized that for months she had been afraid of what he might think of the job she had been doing in his absence. A part of Shane's brain was finally able to relax. The Colonel had never doubted her, and would always give her his trust. Even if in the future, as in the past, she might not perform one hundred percent to his standards - it didn't matter as long as she did her best. That was business. But personally - personally he trusted her.

McQueen noted that tears were beginning to form in Vansen's eyes. _"That's all right," he thought. "I've seen her get teary before, and it has never affected her ability to perform. Sometimes Vansen just tears up."_

He spoke for her ears only: "Thank you, Shane. It's all right."

"Yes, Sir. Yes, it is," she replied and smiled.

He then moved to shake West's hand. West, his best pilot and a man who, after he had stopped running after rumors of Kylen, had turned into a really fine Marine. _" West has always needed me the least. I'm beginning to understand why. I've had a glimpse inside of his life. And there had been one time - when the Docs wanted to take away his memories - that I needed him more than he ever needed me. I'm beginning to understand that too_," McQueen thought.

Nathan was giving him a smile that he had never shared before. Nathan was genuinely happy to see him. The grip was firm and strong, and the Lieutenant spoke first. 

"This is a real pleasure, Colonel. It's good to have you back even for a while."

"Thank you, Nathan. The pleasure is mine."

"Lieutenant Damphousse, how are you doing?" McQueen asked as he took her hand. Phousse's will began to crack, and she broke the military bearing by taking his hand in both of hers. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm fine - good to go," she said. Then in a whisper she added: "It's wonderful to see you, Sir."

McQueen saw a small tear slide down her cheek. _"What is going on here?" _he wondered_. "Damphousse is not given to tearing up - not with me. I've never seen her get weepy. Not once. What hasn't Ross told me? Does he even know that Damphousse isn't 'fine'?" _

"We'll have a chance to speak tomorrow, Vanessa," he said, coming to the decision at that moment. 

"I look forward to it, Sir," she whispered.

Lastly there was Cooper Hawkes, who stepped out from behind Damphousse. He looked a bit nervous at first - until he made eye contact. McQueen was not unaware of how influential he had been in the younger InVitro's life, but at that moment he began to realize that Cooper's attachments might be even deeper that he had surmised. McQueen had seen the Celina boys look at their father, Frank, in the same way - looking for his approval. An InVitro wearing such an open expression of need and affection was a very rare thing. McQueen was moved, not only for himself, but also for and by the rest of the Wildcards. They had obviously taken it upon themselves to provide an atmosphere that allowed Cooper to flourish in such a manner. Cooper exhibited not only need, but also trust and hope in his gaze. 

"Lookin' pretty geequed there, Hawkes." McQueen was uncomfortably aware that his voice had become husky with emotion. He was saved by the fact that his comment had struck the right chord. The Cards all laughed, relieved to be given the outlet.

"Colonel." It was all Cooper could manage by way of response. Vanessa noted that it was Cooper's special way of saying the word. There was, down deep, really only one Colonel in Cooper's mind. 

"The Colonel and I will leave you to it," Ross said. "See you in the Tun at 2330." Ross gestured for McQueen to lead the way out into the passageway, followed him and then closed the hatch, leaving the stunned Fifty-eighth behind. The deed had been done. Emotions had been expressed but controlled. They could all party in a few minutes without having to make first greetings, with all the overwhelming potential for emotional outbursts. And it was all done in five minutes. Ross was good.

"All right," Nathan said, suddenly energized. He gave Shane a high five, and began ripping off his flightsuit, getting ready to hit the showers. "Last one to the Tun has to buy the first round."

Shane sat down in a chair to catch her breath and get her bearings. Vanessa reached behind herself, feeling for a bunk. When she found it, she slowly lay down, feeling a bit dizzy. 

Hawkes didn't head for the showers. He didn't grope for a bunk or grab a chair. He just plopped down where he had been standing - right there on the deck - cross-legged. 

"Now wasn't that just the damnedest thing?" he said almost to himself. He looked up at Shane and grinned from ear to ear. She good-naturedly tried to shove him off balance, and smiled at him indulgently. 

"Enjoy it, guys. I have a feeling we are going to get real busy around here - real soon." With that, she got to her feet and left the room, entering the passageway at a jog.

When she caught up with the senior officers, she spoke. "Excuse me, Sirs. With respect - the flight crew. It's our crew, Sir our old crew. They ask about you regularly, Colonel. It wouldn't be right for them to hear about this from someone else. With your permission, I'd like to be able to inform them that you are here or will be here tomorrow."

McQueen looked to Ross for permission. 

"Capital idea, Captain. I think we'll take care of that ourselves. We'll do it right now," Ross said. He had been very pleased that the reunion had gone to his satisfaction, and instantly decided to take the stage-managing one step further.

"Commodore, Colonel, it's Hawkes' turn to stand them a round," Shane explained.

"Well, we must do all that we can to keep Hawkes honest," McQueen noted with some humor, recalling his efforts to instruct the younger InVitro in the finer points of dealing with Natural-borns.

"Tell Hawkes to haul ass," Ross ordered. "We expect him to be in the Enlisted Club in fifteen mikes. We will see the rest of you at make that 2350 at the Tun."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Vansen said with a smile. She turned and gave a decent example of hauling ass herself, running back to the quarters to give Hawkes the news that his wallet would shortly be considerably lighter.

Ross and McQueen continued their conversation as they walked through the passageways and took the ladders to the flightdeck.

"She is learning," McQueen said with a fair amount of pride. Shane had remembered to include the flight crew as part of the 5-8 reunion. And she had remembered it instantly. She knew all of the Marines in her command and what they thought and felt. She apparently made sure that her flight crews were reminded on a regular basis that the pilots knew that their success and their very lives depended on the people who kept the Hammers in the air. Yes, he was very pleased with her.

"Not to worry, Ty. She has learned. She sounds more like you every day."

"I notice, Sir, that you are pretty free with other people's money this evening," Ty bantered with his friend.

"Social graces, Colonel McQueen, social graces. Someone still has to be responsible to help you polish your social skills. I'm still working on it. I begin to despair."

"You and General Green," Ty mumbled.

Ross stopped in his tracks. " General Green? THE Becca Green? Becca Boyington?"

McQueen stopped and turned back toward Ross, waiting for it. It didn't take long at all.

"Pretty rarefied circle you've been moving in, my friend. So tell me, how is the air up there? The Saratoga's own T.C. McQueen, sitting tight on General Wierek's staff, and now Becca Green is interested in you as well. Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time. I'm only sorry it seemed to take so long."

McQueen looked at the deck. Glen was making him feel uncomfortable.

"This is a good day, McQueen. A very good day," Ross said, and the two moved out again. "You know, Ty, I haven't had this much fun in a while. The Wildcards," he chuckled. "They looked like they were seeing a ghost. Come on, let's get down to the flightdeck and scare the snot out of the crew."

"Commodore Glen. You don't have enough to do." McQueen spoke with easy, light sarcasm.

"It shows, does it?" Glen asked, smiling. "Well, I'm sure with you on my ship that will change soon enough."

McQueen nodded a silent response, and Ross knew that some rough seas would lie ahead.

"Well, let's enjoy it while we can," Ross said, refusing to allow his good mood to be brought down by unknown future events. It was an aspect of his personality that Ty had always liked. _"Seize the day."_

© 2002 m. wheels


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